I grew up in an arts family. My family tree is filled with artists and designers spanning many different mediums. Our home was filled with art, that much like the cheese in our house, was always real, made by local artists, family members, and quality reproductions. Music too filled my home with a piano always present waiting to be played. We attended theatre, went to museums, and my brother and I were at every turn encouraged to create. We took piano lessons, were interns for our community theatre, and had the bucket of quality art supplies only one cabinet door and oil cloth away. My teachers became foundational in my education of the arts, my community, showing arts in action year round, and my parish, showing how art expresses the beauty, wonder, and stories of our faith and encouraging us to pursue a relationship with Christ. The arts are in my bones. When I hear a symphony play, I can almost feel my muscles playing that instrument or vocal cords producing those notes. When I see a dancer dance, I can almost feel my skeletal structure keep me in position, moving across a stage. When I see something beautiful, I can already see it in the form of a painting, drawing, or sculpture in my minds eye. I was born to create. I was created by God to create.
I recently finished reading Clare McCallan’s newest book, Courage to Create. I had to force myself to slow down my reading, taking in every word, and reflecting on every question. The book once crisp and pristine, now, not yet a month on my bookshelf, is filled with worn pages. I could not bring myself to commit to writing directly on the given space the author provided for reflection, wanting instead to keep that area clear for fear if I were to come back later, I might have different thoughts and ideas. I have a fear of mucking up the pages. Much like a new notebook or planner, I approached the pages with the hesitation of that first mark of a pen.
This very approach to the reading of this book put a spotlight on a dichotomy in my life: The hesitation to create when it comes at “ART” and the fearlessness that accompanies the art I create for those living with dementia. The boldness to try a something new with a resident or client. The dedication to refine each program. As I look around, I don’t see that same fearlessness in my peers. I see people fearing harm caused by a program not going well. I see staff walking on egg shells, afraid of real human emotions the residents they serve may hold. We see this in how people are medicated, how stagnate activities and care have become for those living in skilled care. In many ways, rightly so, with the regulations put on Senior Living and the demands of families, the struggle it is to get quality staff, and the stigma that comes with dementia and age. We as a care partners have lost our own courage to create.
At the end of Chapter 7, Clare reminds us of this quote by St. Teresa of Avila,
Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which He looks
Compassion on this world.
We are co-creators with God in our work and in our art. By seeing the very person before us, loving them, becoming relational with them, we find we are not alone in our craft, but have a partner, mentor, guide, and master artist in God. Our studio mate is Christ. The Holy Spirit our assistant. I am reminded of a quote by Venerable Mary Angeline Teresa McCrory, O. Carm.,
“If you must fail, let it be on the side of kindness.”
We will fail in our care for someone else. We are human, they are human, but if we work in every moment to love the person we are caring for, seeking and willing their good, our God will catch us in our failure, and our kindness will be what is remembered.
A year ago, I decided to put “Artist” in my bio. I still cringe a little bit when I write that word next to my name. For years I danced around it, calling myself a creative engagement specialists, creator, creative gerontologist (a title actually given to me by someone else) and many other artist adjacent titles. After reading Courage to Create, I am more certain than ever, that I must keep that title in my bio. While I don’t practice the fine arts in any professional sense, nor seek to drop everything to become a “working artist” in my craft. I am an artist using the same skills any poet, choir director, painter, or actor would use. Instead of a canvas, I work with a program calendar. Instead of a stage, a memory café. Instead of a pen and notebook, a moment to engage with someone living with dementia. Instead of a microphone, a gathering with a family to help them understand how to love their loved one more, even as the family feels their loved one is dying each day. And, if some artwork is produced, some work created to take the stage through all of this, what a joy that would be, a gift from God.